Dinner that night is quiet. Candlelight flickers. Garma asleep upstairs. The flat is small. The window fogged. Rain tapping the glass. I still smell rain, the city, old circuits in my undersuit. We sit, plates of pasta—her design. Olive-oil, garlic—taste grounding.
After, she lingers by the door as I stand to go. I hesitate.
“Don’t go yet,” she says. The rain-light glitters behind her. Her voice breaks the quiet.
I stay. My boots cold under me. She steps back and pulls me inside, closes the door. The click echoes.
She looks at me, rain dripping from her coat, sadness pressing in her eyes. “You ruined everything,” she says softly. “And you came back anyway.”
I kneel in front of her. I hold her hands—washed of fury for now. “I came back for you. For him. For us.”
She’s silent. Then she grips me. “Stay.”
I nod. “I will.”
The night deepens. We sit on the sofa. Garma asleep. I rest my head on her shoulder. She breathes slow. The city hums outside. Rain. Electric. Quiet.
I feel the Meld space between us stir—edges sharper. I feel him. IfeelGarma’s pulse. Our connection. The threat beyond.
The room is dim. Only one lamp flickers, casting long, warm shadows across the plain walls. Rain drums against the windowpane—soft at first, then insistent, a steady tap-tap-tap that joins the rhythm in my chest. I sit on the edge of the bed, the slatted wood cold beneath me, the undersuit I still wear damp and heavy. My boots are off; socks soaked. Everything smells of wet fabric and metal gauze—the smell of someone who came in from a storm and didn’t change.
She enters quietly, her silhouette framed in the door. Hair loose around her shoulders, wet curls flicking with droplets that glint in the low light. She pauses before the bed, her eyes scanning the small space, and then landing on me. There is something small and tentative in her gaze that rings louder than any alarm I’ve ever heard.
I don’t move. I don’t speak.
She stands there for a long heartbeat. Then she takes a step and we’re very close—so close I smell her shampoo, the fainttrace of citrus or something like sunlit ozone, the warmth of her skin under the damp shirt. My hand shifts without thought, inches from her hip, but I don’t close the gap yet.
Then she kisses me.
Soft. So unexpectedly gentle I freeze.
Her lips on mine are warm, wet, and full of all the things we haven’t said: fear, regret, longing, promise. The lamp flickers and the light falls across the side of her face—her cheek pressed to mine, her hair brushing my neck. I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding to her hip, the other cupping her face like I thought she might vanish again. The muscles of her jaw relax beneath my thumb. Her breath is shallow, trembling.
We don’t rush. We don’t break. We allow it to grow. The kiss becomes something slower, fuller, like we’re rewinding time back to before the storm, before the crash, before the silence grew between us. I feel the warmth of her body through wet fabric, the subtle rise and fall of her chest. I taste salt from the rain and honey from the tea she brought earlier. I hear the soft click of a distant radiator, the rain beyond the window, the faint hum of the city.
She pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. They glint with rain-light, resolve. “I…” she begins, voice low, then shakes her head. I don’t let her finish. I lean in again and kiss her temple, the drop of a raindrop in my hair falling across her forehead.
Then… we stay together.
We move into the bed. I lower her gently onto the mattress, sheets cool against her damp back. She coughs softly; the chill hits. I pull the covers over us, the cotton smelling crisp and clean. I trace her collarbone with my fingers, feel the quickening heartbeat beneath. She doesn’t resist. She lets me see everything—her fear, her need, her ache.
Our bodies align. Not in haste. Not in assault. In communion. I cover her with my arms. She lets her head rest on my chest. I feel the steady thunder of her heart in her ribs. I feel my own pulse, hammered from months of war, now slower, measuring. The rain outside intensifies—rolling waves of sound, the slap of water on stone and glass and roof. I pull her closer.
Her voice is barely a whisper: “I waited.”
“I know,” I say. My lips brush her hair.
The world outside ceases to matter. The war, the victims, the invasion of Nexxus, the titan strikes—they all fade to static. In this moment, it’s only us.
She rolls toward me, sleep tugging at her eyelids. Her breath comes in soft sighs. I stroke her hair, trace the curve of her neck. I press my lips to the place behind her ear. “I think you’re already mine,” I whisper.
No answer comes. But her cheek nudges my chest. Her arms tighten around me.
I stay awake. I hold her until the tremor leaves her body. I rock her gently until sleep claims her fully, her breathing deepens, the tension in her limbs softens. Then I shift, place my hand on the small space between us and Garma’s room on the other side. I feel the hum of his monitor through the wall—steady now. Safe.
Later, in the dark, the lamp off, the rain quieting, I press my lips to her temple again. The floorboard creaks under me; she stirs. But I stay. I whisper into the hush: “I won’t leave again.”
She murmurs something soft—undecipherable, but full of trust.
